POETRY
Carole Barkley	The Morning After
Jessica Bush	In Retrospect
Suzanne Frischkorn	Sister
C.R. Garza	Ennui
Ron Gibson, Jr.	Pirouette
David Johnson	Love Poem
James Lineberger	You Know Who Your Father Is
Heather Long	Adagio
Dorothy Doyle Mienko	Shopping for Shoes
Patty Mooney	Poem For Maggie
Kathleen Savino	metaphor
Jonathan Shipley	June Bugs
Richard Stevenson	After the gulls
Tim Wenzell	What You've Let In
PROSE
J. Dewey	Mama Reads
	I can feel her listening for me, for the tin-can sound of my headphones or my breathing if I’m almost asleep. She's done this my entire life. Maybe she does it when I am not there, out of habit, the way she still brews an entire pot of coffee even though she drinks half a cup and leaves the rest to cool by the sink all day long. Something cold and black and thick waiting at the end of the day.
Evan Palmer	The Dung Beetle's Career
	Bailey was a Customer Service Representative. No man-in-the-street could be certain as to what that meant. A dull eyes-glazed-over "Oh" would be a typical response. They are legion with these vaporous titles. Do you provide high-level technical support to the company’s most valuable clients or do you clean urinals? Not sure I should shake your hand.
C. R. Resetarits	Ecomare
	They found him floating face up in one of the small ponds that made up his research empire. The expression on his face, wide-eyed, gaping, unuttered surprise, was said to be priceless--as was the image of the tadpoles and naiads that were grazing in the crumb-infused tangles of his beard.
Andrew L. Wilson	The Spider's House
	I wish I hated you more. I wish I desired you less. But I don't. The more I hate, the more I want. Isn't that Catullus? Who? She turned to me. The slim pale shoulder, the delicate breast. Catullus. You know. The Roman poet. In love with Lesbia. Hopeless.
PHOTOGRAPHY
Mary Rodriguez	Feline Behavior

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